The Higher Law of Gestures
by ropesburg
Summary: Earl Harlan is dropped off at a doorstep. He might have forgotten something.


A/N: I've never written anything for wtnv before but I love, love, love this show, I love the characters and Harlan has always intrigued me greatly. I'm sure there will be more.

* * *

He didn't miss her, exactly. It was more like a weak conjuring of nausea in the back of his mind, like missing a step in the late night. There were many things he had forgotten while some, oddly, not at all. The memory of her in their caravan, parked outside of Yellowstone national park the spring of -86, that memory held on. She'd slammed the cheap cabinets shut, making the whole makeshift pantry quiver. Ravaging through the endless papers that lined the surfaces because she'd misplaced her pack of cigs somewhere and had forgotten to buy more.

He didn't miss _her_ , exactly. Just the feel of her head on her shoulder. He missed the sound of her discordant singing, the high pitched notes she always swallowed whole, that mind-numbing ability to get all the words wrong. Yet she persisted, she sang outrageously while packing bags or vacuuming the tiny floor.

He missed her presence.

He'd forgotten her name.

* * *

The stairs were white. The man regarded them intently. On the mailbox was a woman's name, and a man's. Neither one were his. The men had dropped him off there, saying nothing when opening the car door. The houses on the street were small, the same size as a shoe box or a bed, thin lanky electrical wires tying them down.

The steps were white. As was the rest of the house. In the house, a phone rang.

Empty concrete driveway. The grass was overgrown, struggling to overtake a bike resting on its side. When he went up the stairs, the wood threatened to give beneath his feet, it too exhausted, it too weary from the stress. Around the nails it had begun to rot. Decaying. The man brushed off his shirt and tie, looking himself over. Then he knocked on the door.

* * *

As soon as he got through the door he stepped out his shoes and dropped the keys on the commode by the hanger.

"I'm home!" he called out. "You won't believe what happened in school today! Pete got caught by a-" The boy stopped cold at the sight of the man.

His mother, covered in flour, her apron spattered with white, had a wrinkle on her forehead. "This is Harlan," she said, nodding to the man.

They shook hands. "Nice to meet you," the man offered.

"You too," the boy managed, his flushed face now pale.

He went to his room, locked the door, and sat down by the bed. His mother knocked on the door shortly after. "He's left. I made scones."

It smelled of bread, amplified by each step closer to the kitchen. Without him noticing it the sky had darkened, now purple. Glancing around before sitting down by the table, the boy reached for a scone. "Was he my dad?"

His mom held the tea cup just above the table, but didn't drink from it. "Yes."

He plunked the scone down on his plate, "Is he gonna live with us?"

She shook her head, taking a small sip. "No."

Steam rose up from the bread basket, over the marmalade and the butter.

"Why didn't he come see me sooner?"

He sniffled. The light green table runner got dots on it.

His mother reached for his immobile hand from across the table. She stroked his fingers with her own, then gave his hand a squeeze. "I don't know, honey. I don't know."

* * *

Far out in the desert he could see a small gathering of boys, their colorful uniforms like runaway crayons, dips of blue in a beige backdrop. According to the boxes at home filled with patches badges emblems, the man had been a scout himself. Drawer upon drawer of those textile circles, their proud motto displayed across. He'd been in the _Asphalt River District's_ fishing derby, and even won a prize. His memories were like clothes that didn't fit quite right.

He hurried back to his apartment, the cowboy hat drawn down to shield his face and struggling with the key in his shaking hands until he finally met the cool air of his home.

There was dust all over, thick cobbles of dirt from age. His home was his fortitude. His peace. It looked like it had stood abandoned for years, for decades, but everything was where he remembered it.

In this new reality where he had found himself it was the only place that hadn't moved, hadn't changed. In it, he hadn't either. When he was at home he was himself.

He had to pull harshly on the fridge door for it to give, burping out a great gust of cold air. On the middle shelf there was a plate with an entire fish on it. A rainbow trout, with its thick tail bent to fit in. The man shook his head, going to get a glass of water.

The little box still remained on the table, a greyish tint to the gently arched blue lid. It fit in the palm of his hand. He had carried it from the jewelry store, nervously fiddling all the way, until he'd dropped it off at home.

There was no name inscribed on the inside of the ring.


End file.
